New Novel, The Daddy Rock, by Michael J. Kannengieser

The Daddy Rock

By

Michael J. Kannengieser

Decent Hill is proud to present retired NYPD cop Michael J. Kannengieser, New York native and author of the new police thriller The Daddy Rock ($19.95 Paperback 978-1-936085-63-7; $9.95 eBook 978-1-936085-64-4). The Daddy Rock is a gripping tale of adventure, crime, rage, family drama, and the human capacity to cope and forgive. Told in a vivid, descriptive, and readable style, Michael takes the reader on an exhilarating ride in this human police story with sympathetic, well-developed characters that will keep the reader turning the pages well into the night.

The Daddy Rock is available now!

Paperback $19.95

Device-independent eBook $9.95

My new novel, The Daddy Rock, is available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and at my publisher's website, Decent Hill Publishing. 

Retired NYPD cops Roger and Danny are caught in a crossfire by previously incarcerated 

gang members who are now out for revenge. Roger must also deal with ghosts of his past as 

a previously unknown daughter of his, Bonnie, surfaces seeking help. 

Roger must help Danny apprehend the men out to kill them, and he must come to Bonnie’s

aid so she may live in this brand new, thrilling police drama by author Michael Kannengieser.

"The Ascent of Isaac Steward" Available on Kindle!

Fans of Mike French, founder and Senior Editor at The View from Here Magazine, is the author of the brilliant and emotionally powerful novel, "The Ascent of Isaac Steward." Available in print, his book can now be purchased for Kindle at Amazon.com.


"Mike French creates drama in both dialog and exposition. There is emotional conflict -- and hope for its elimination -- with each turn of the page..." author Michael J. Kannengieser

About the book:"The Ascent of Isaac Steward is the remarkable and extraordinary debut novel from the senior editor of the prestigious literary magazine, The View From Here. Written with a literary, lyrical voice, the book follows Isaac Steward in an emotional and original tale as he struggles to deal with the resurfacing of a suppressed memory of a car crash a year ago which killed his wife, Rebekah, his son, Esau, and left his other son, Jacob, in a coma. Isaac becomes increasingly dysfunctional and delusional as the story unfolds in a hypnotic and startling way bringing into play childhood memories of a Punch and Judy show and the revelation from his half-brother, Ishmael, that in order to be reunited with Rebekah he must be brought to a tree from his father's wood called The Dandelion Tree. To help him, Isaac slips in and out of being Major Tom Donaldson, an SAS commander fashioned by his mind to help him regress back to a time of naiveté and happiness before the accident. But Donaldson brings only death and violence and Isaac struggles to keep a grip on reality as he descends into his mind and starts to question if he himself has already died. Atmospheric and sensual and dealing with universal desires of love and reconciliation, The Ascent of Isaac Steward is reminiscent of the surrealist literary experiments of James Joyce but highly readable. Readers will be astounded, transfixed and immersed in the world long after turning the last page."

The Kindle app can also be downloaded on your iPhone or Droid phone! Order your copy today!

Be sure to visit these sites: Author Mike French's website. The View from Here Magazine.

Eight People to Avoid While on a Diet

When you're on a diet, there are people who will sabotage you. Some will be friends, others will be coworkers, and still others will be people who like to see fat people squirm. These are eight types of individuals to stay away from while you try to lose weight.

1) The friend who is ready, willing, and able to help: This person may or may not even be a real friend. Yet they see you passing by the fresh bagels in the break area at work. They sniff the air like wolverines at the scent of the container of 2% milk-fat cottage cheese you brought in for lunch, and they realize you want to lose weight. Whether they are a coworker or someone you're related to, this pain in the ass is going to count every calorie you put in your mouth as if they have a personal stake in your health.

"Are you sure you can have that, honey? You shouldn't have the toast unless it's whole wheat."

It doesn't matter which plan you're following; they are the one who is going to make sure you stick to it, whether they are familiar with your diet plan or not.

2) The Devil in the Devil Dogs: This person is someone you really don't like, and you're only polite to them because you work with them. Because food is present in most workplaces in the form of birthday cakes, doughnuts and bagels for breakfast, cafeteria cuisine, and catering for other corporate functions, this person senses your weakness and derives a gleeful pleasure from watching you squirm while others nosh.

"You can have one. It's not going to kill you," they say.

Unfortunately, the food item they point to while grinning as you fight temptation can actually kill you in the long run.

3) The former fat person: This saboteur does not understand the damage they do. Because they've successfully lost a significant amount of weight after being obese, they see others struggling with weight loss as ill patients who need their guidance and advice based on their own experience. They feel camaraderie with you. They're in this fight with you, regardless of your feelings or needs. Little do they realize that not everyone has the same physiology, mental makeup, and taste buds as they do. Also, there is more than one diet plan, and some of them make sense for one person but not another. Formerly fat people can become wedded to their system, and everything else seems like folly.

"You're allowed five grams of fat a day? That's not good. You'd better read the instructions again."

They become the unwelcome cheerleader in your life, seeking you out at every function, usually waiting for you at the buffet line with their hands clasped in front of them and a helpful smile.

"There's a fruit tray right over there—and they have melon!"

4) The loving, denying enabler: This person is most likely a close friend or a family member who needs you to stay the way you are, for fatter or for worse. There is no evil or bad intent on this person's part. They simply refuse to believe there is anything wrong with you. They invite you to their home, prepare a tray of lasagna, and seem vaguely insulted when you explain that your cholesterol number has a comma in it and you need to lose weight.

"But I made this because you LOVE lasagna!"

5) Anyone, for any reason, dining with you in a restaurant who hears you order a salad—and ONLY a salad: You might as well ask for a revolver with one round in the chamber.

"Come on, you're in a restaurant. You can have the pasta. They make it fresh here."

Yes, they also sell it in boxes, in cans, and at the pizza joint down the block. That's how you became fat in the first place.

6) The fitness freak: They are the one who goes to the gym before work for an hour of cardio, works on their abs during lunch, and goes home after work only to run through the neighborhood until ten o'clock at night in a reflective orange vest. They'll pass by you in your cubicle while you open a container of Dannon Low Fat Yogurt with the not-quite-real fruit coating the bottom of the cup. They'll skid to a stop on one heel, à la Fred Flintstone, and double back to offer you their unsolicited advice.

"How many hours a day do you exercise?"

Hours? Per day? The only exercise you get is pushing a shopping cart up and down the freezer aisle of the supermarket searching for fat-free fudgesicles. Sure, you'd love to work out more, but that comes after dropping fifty or sixty pounds so you can reach for a fallen paper clip next to your desk without wheezing.

7) The quasi-medically trained person: This person can be a nurse, a nurse's aide, a medical technician, or someone who merely answers the phone in a doctor's office. Except for a real doctor who knows your medical history, avoid this person above all else. Why? Because a little bit of knowledge is enough to kill you and certainly inadequate to help you.

You might meet this person at a party or social event; you may know them slightly or not at all. At that point, you have already dropped a lot of weight, and you're feeling good about yourself. Others are beginning to notice your weight loss, and you are free to enjoy a night out without having to worry about your diet for a few hours.

This person is seated at your table. They may be a boyfriend, a girlfriend, or one of your cousins. While others congratulate you on your hard work, the quasi-medical person sits back and gives you the once-over with a look reserved for an undated Tupperware container of tuna found in the back of the fridge.

"Your doctor put you on Atkins/South Beach/Weight Watchers/Nutri-System? That diet makes your adrenal-muscular-adenoidenal-hypo-sub-systemic-glandular-cardiac-renal-tryptphanic-glycemic index spike to hyper-abnormal levels. I wouldn't go back to that guy. He doesn't know what he's talking about."

8) The product/system/workout-device salesperson: Anything you're doing is pointless because the dietary supplement, exercise equipment, diet plan, or psychological self-help book, video, or audiobook they are selling is not only the best way to lose weight, improve your sex life, give you energy, improve your memory, kill your appetite, and reverse the aging process, but can also make you money!

"Not only can you buy this product from us at wholesale prices, you can EARN MONEY by becoming a dealer just like us! You can sell to your friends, coworkers, and family—if they still talk to you after you've pestered them relentlessly until they buy your crap. You can throw parties and invite every single person you ever stood behind in line at the supermarket. You'll be thin, healthy, rich, and friendless. Never get invited to a family function again!"

—M.J. Kannengieser

The Neighborhood Network

A common American phenomenon disappeared in the 1990s. I blame it on cell phones. When I was a kid in the late 1960s and early 1970s, I’d hop on my bicycle on a Saturday or during the summer and ride off to my friend’s house for the day. The only admonishment I received from my mother was to be home by dinnertime. I did not differ from any of my friends. We all had an internal clock that ticked louder and louder as suppertime loomed. We listened for a distinct signal that meant it was time to go home.

It didn’t matter what I was doing or where I was; I could hear my dad’s booming voice from blocks away. My friends immediately understood they were next, and their mothers or fathers would signal them soon. Before there were 4G networks and text messages, there was the neighborhood network. Often, adult neighbors or other kids relayed the dispatch to me. “Michael, your father is calling you.” Sometimes, I’d be too involved in a game of baseball or watching television in a friend’s living room, and I would miss the call. If one of my siblings came looking for me, or if my father had to get in the car and drive through the neighborhood, I knew I was in trouble.

Doing this today with my children would be odd and unnecessary. They both have cell phones. My twelve-year-old son has a cell phone so he can text us from his friends’ homes or school if he needs a ride. Because she needs to visit friends often, my seventeen-year-old daughter has a car. My wife and I would be terrible parents if we deprived our kids of these devices. During my teenage years, I couldn’t imagine digging into my pocket to answer a call from my mother in the middle of a baseball game with my buddies. Today, my children expect me to text them.

Just once, I’d like to stand on my front porch and shout my son’s name at dinnertime. He’d be at his friend’s house down the block. I imagine him in the driveway, riding a skateboard with his pal, and he’d stop the moment he heard my voice. He’d look up. I would wave and be transported back to a time in my life when simplicity and necessity merged and created a charming and unique tradition. Moments later, I’d reach into my pocket and read a text message from my son asking, “Why are you yelling at me?”

Photo by Michael J. Kannengieser

A Legacy of History

My dad was more than a lover of books; he was an amateur historian. His library included titles covering World War I, World War II, steam engines, ships (he always wanted to be a sea captain), birds (he was also a bird-watcher), and the Civil War. In addition, he shared his passion for reading with our mother, who typically sat in the living room after supper with a cup of hot tea and a mystery.

My siblings and I became accustomed to shelves of literature and history books crammed into every corner of our tiny Cape Cod-style home. My father’s grasp of the subject matter was so thorough that one of my sister’s friends, a professor at an esteemed university, once told me, “Your father knows more about American history than most history professors where I teach.”

It should have been no surprise how many books we accounted for in our parents’ home after Dad passed away in May 2009. Yet, after I probed deep into a crawlspace with my flashlight to retrieve a box I had discovered in a dark corner, I found an assortment of documents—relics of his earlier occupation—that were remarkable not only for their subject matter but also because my father had possessed them.

I dragged the flimsy cardboard box from the eaves and into my old bedroom. Dripping with sweat and covered in dust, I eyed the contents, which at first glance seemed unimpressive. Many were reports, plain blue and gray government documents. One of the titles grabbed me. On the pale blue cover, in all capital letters across the top, the title read: The United States Strategic Bomb Survey. Underneath was a subtitle: The Effects of Atomic Bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The words Atomic Bombs were printed in a much larger font than the rest of the text.

Other booklets caught my attention, too: The End of the War in the Pacific, Surrender Documents in Facsimile, Germany Surrenders Unconditionally, International Military Trials, Nuremberg, and, most impressive of all, Charter of the United Nations, in five languages. There were about two dozen of these government publications. Their monetary value is uncertain, their historical significance indisputable, but their worth as family heirlooms enormous.

Details about how my father came to own this collection of historic papers are sketchy. He worked for the U.S. Navy at the old Brooklyn Navy Yard in Brooklyn, New York, for twenty years. Dad took a job as a forklift driver in his late twenties. He had been ill for years after his discharge from the Army in November 1944, battling pneumonia and various infections—all complications from his wounds and much more manageable with today’s medicines. There, he took advantage of the many educational opportunities offered both by the Navy and through the G.I. Bill. He studied accounting, management, and mechanics. By the end of his twenty-year tenure, he worked in an office as a labor liaison between the unions and the government.

Records of his employment, such as training certificates and work orders, gave few clues as to how he had gained access to this trove of government publications. In another box, I discovered a newspaper. It appeared to be a weekly publication produced by the Navy for its employees. On the front page, in the lower right-hand corner, I noticed a picture of a group of men and women in business attire. Among the names mentioned in the caption was my father’s. He was in the back row, taller than many of them, smiling and, according to the description, named to the N.S.A. Library Committee.

As a member of a library committee, he would certainly have been able to acquire the items I uncovered in his home. However, I have not confirmed whether the N.S.A. organization he worked for was indeed the National Security Agency or a now-defunct branch of the government. Perhaps I don’t want to unravel the mystery surrounding my father’s trove of important booklets. The small mystery accompanying them adds an aura of intrigue to my memory of my father as a man who may have had influence beyond the ordinary circumstances of a lower-middle-class family man.

I’d like to believe my father kept these documents for their historical significance. I’m sure that before he died, he knew I’d find them and appreciate them the way he did. I only wish he’d told me about them sooner so I wouldn’t have had to crawl through the dusty eaves to drag them out of there.

Stay tuned for more information about my upcoming novel, "Burning Blue," due in stores July, 2012. Writing and publishing are slow processes, and I am anxious for everyone to read my story and meet the characters I created.

Please visit Passionate Writer Publishing for great books.

Fans of fine literary magazines should visit The View from Here Magazine.

My New Novel, Burning Blue, Due Out in July!

Michael J. Kannengieser signed a publishing deal with Passionate Writer Publishing and his novel, Burning Blue, will be released in July. Details about book signings and events will be published here. Burning Blue is a novel about cops, demons, Hell, drug dealers, and has a lot of action. Get reading for a fast, fun book that will keep you awake at night!

Jack Chase is a cop who betrayed his badge when he took money from a drug dealer. Only his late father’s legacy as a department chaplain might prevent him from being prosecuted. When Jack is shot in the line of duty, he has a near-death experience. Yet, he does not see deceased loved ones or Pearly Gates -- he goes to Hell.

If you wish to contact the author to speak at your event or to arrange a book signing, please contact Michael J. Kannengieser by clicking here.

Published in Newsday!

Newsday, a major New York newspaper, has published an article by Michael J. Kannengieser in their OpEd section. Read "The Lights That Never Go Out," here: http://www.newsday.com/opinion/oped/expressway-the-lights-that-never-go-out-1.3158314.

I Have These, and I Am Lucky

There’s an intentionally idiotic contest I have with a colleague who works in my office. It began when I started to amass decorative items on my desktop. Some of them are from my kids, such as a retractable keyboard brush that says “#1 Dad,” a cell phone holder that I use to hold my business cards, which also has “Dad” printed on it, and a stuffed vinyl “Yankees” baseball, among other things.

One day, as I was digging through reams of data, I took note of the stuff I had been hoarding in my workspace. I picked up a scented candle given to me as a Christmas present years ago and said:

“Richard, I have this, and you do not.”

He took note of my offering, searched his messy surroundings, and picked up one of his items—I think it was a can of Pepsi—and replied, “Michael, I have this, and you do not.”

And so, our juvenile game was born.

Yet, that is not why I have these trinkets and souvenirs in the first place. In the past week, I added two wooden shot glasses, one with “Haiti” carved into it, that I bought while on a cruise with my family this summer. Our ship stopped in Labadee, Haiti, and I bargained for them with the shop owner. He started the bidding at twenty-five dollars each. After I told him that only in Fantasy Land could he get someone to pay that kind of money for his junk, I whittled him down to three dollars apiece. When I look at them positioned beneath my monitor, I think about wading through the water under the Haitian sky with my son riding on my back. My wife and daughter are on the beach trying to get a tan, and for a day, we are in paradise.

My business cards could have no better receptacle than the hard rubber stand with protruding arms holding them tightly. My son gave this to me, and I am sorry I don’t remember whether it was for my birthday or Father’s Day. There’s an oversized ballpoint pen my daughter gave me, a small car that somehow wound up in my possession, and a multi-tool a former coworker generously gave me because he thought I could use it. Recently, a young woman who works in the front office returned from vacation and gave several of us flavored tea bags in pouches tied closed with ribbon. This gift has joined the clutter, and I am not sure why it is not in one of my desk drawers with manila folders piled on top.

I’m never sure where my next tchotchke will come from, but I do not seek them out. Except for the silly, ongoing contest I have with my buddy who sits behind me, I wouldn’t assign much value to more than a few of them. Perhaps the miniature medallion with the word “Empyre” painted in script across the top and attached to a rectangular scrap of leather would be in the garbage if it had not helped me win several of our office “one-upmanship” contests.

As I write this, my array of knickknacks seems a bit childish for a grown man to have in his possession. I could toss out the Yankees ball, and I could give the candle to one of the women in the front office. The multi-tool would be of better use in my toolbox at home, and the Disney keychain in the shape of a crown would probably just get lost.

Yet, the shot glasses are from Haiti, and they remind me of the fun I had with my wife and kids on the cruise. The giant pen is a present from my daughter, and the keyboard brush and business card holder both say “Dad” on them. I could never get rid of those. Yes, the word “Dad” makes all the difference when it comes to landing in a trash can or sitting on my desktop.

I have these things, and I am one lucky dad.

By Michael J. Kannengieser
Photo by M.J. Kannengieser

Have Phone, Will Shoot -- Pictures

The cell phone is so ubiquitous, that no one questions the fact that these devices have become more like Swiss Army knives than merely telephones. I remember when I made my first cell phone call. It was in my friend Jeff's car and we were coming back from the Hamptons. It was around 1992. I remember this because my wife and I were married the year before and we were no longer newlyweds by then.

Jeff bought this gray, wedge of plastic with large punch buttons, and a narrow LCD screen for around three hundred dollars. Though cell phones had been around for a few years by then, they were for people with money who also liked to flaunt the fact that they were able to make phone calls from train platforms and restaurants. I joked with my friend telling that if he waited a year, phone companies would be giving them away. Wow, was I right on that one. 

A Ghost in the Dunes

On the second tier at the Nikon Theater at Jones Beach, I settled into my seat for the big concert. My wife and I had taken our kids to see My Chemical Romance and Blink-182 on the Tenth Anniversary Honda Civic Tour. Though it had been quite a while since I had attended a show at this arena, I had a long history at Jones Beach State Park.

My father was a World War II veteran who worked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard for twenty years. Upon his retirement, he got a job with the now-defunct Long Island State Park Commission. He spent his time traveling back and forth among Robert Moses State Park, Captree, and Jones Beach. During the summer, he’d take my brothers, sisters, and me to one of the fields at Robert Moses and leave us there while he went about his duties. I was the fifth of six children, and my older sister was well equipped to keep a careful eye on us younger ones while we splashed around in the waves.

It was comforting to see Dad stop by in one of the park vehicles to check on us. He’d have a worried expression on his face, wondering whether we were having a good time and whether there was any danger in leaving us alone. Back in the late 1960s and early 1970s, when we visited our summer paradise, a tradition was born.

I remember riding with Dad in a green, state-owned truck as he went about his routine. He seemed important wherever he went, and he loved what he did immensely. It was the environment—the ocean and the dunes—that made him inhale deeply and smile as he scanned the horizon. I always sensed that he felt lucky to be so close to nature and to visit such a beautiful place each day. Because he was not a wealthy man, his appreciation for the parks became part of his legacy to our family.

My wife and I make it a point to take our kids to the beach during the warm months. During winter, we eat bagels and drink coffee and juice while watching wild deer from inside our parked car at Robert Moses. When friends are in town, I take them on a tour of the area and share what I know about each location as I recall what my dad taught me. The iconic water towers, the lengthy bridges, and the bathhouses all fell under his purview. My father helped maintain these landmarks. His fingers touched steel beams and stone that tens of thousands of people see each day during the summer.

All that was part of my childhood is still present after my father’s passing. The striped umbrellas, boardwalks, concession stands, saltwater taffy, and amphitheater are as enduring as my precious early memories. As I sat in the fold-down seat at the Nikon Theater last Saturday with my family, I felt as though I were host to a stadium full of strangers. My life had taken root in this very place.

In the waters to my left, boaters awaited a musical performance. Overhead, clouds winked with the suggestion of rain, and to my right, beachgoers bid farewell to the sand and ocean for the evening. I sat back and imagined that, among the wavy crests of sand dunes and the inky shadows stretching wide, my father was smiling, at home in the park he loved so dearly.

By Michael J. Kannengieser

Photo by M.J. Kannengieser

When Faith Died

The week before Easter, I was talking with acquaintances at my son’s lacrosse game. When asked if I was going to church on the holiday, I fumbled as did not know what to say. The answer was no, and the moment of awkwardness did not pass quickly. They could not know that my struggle with faith was more germane at present than ever before.

When my father was alive, I could refer to him and say that he had enough devotion for his entire family. We attended mass when we visited him, or when he came to our home for the weekend I took him to our parish. When he died, those opportunities vanished, and so did my connection to the church.

Seasons Of Living

This is the first Christmas season without my mother and father and it has hit me hard. Granted, I am a middle aged man with a family, and there are those who have suffered greater losses while much younger. Still, my children miss them very much, and their passing left a big hole in our lives. Also, not having parents leaves me at the top of the family tree along with my brothers and sisters. I’m too young for that, I think.

My nieces and nephews are either in college or getting ready to go. My daughter is in high school and we are already picking out universities from websites and catalogs. My son will be entering middle school next September, and I feel like life is sailing past me rapidly. I’m in my forties, sliding down the back end of the hill. There’s nothing but gray hair and an A.A.R.P. membership in my future. I’m not unhappy, but I have a vague sense that I lack accomplishment.

Read More

Public Relations & You

I’ve been asked by a professor at the college where I am employed to deliver a lecture on public relations. My speech is tailored to the young, inexperienced, undergraduates in her class. The main theme will focus on how the demeanor and appearance of job seekers influences potential employers.

In my other professional life, I am managing editor for fiction for an international literary magazine. In that role I get to read some well written stories. In many cases, however, I must turn writers down in short order. My duty is to accept only the best a writer has to offer which complements the style accepted by the periodical I work for. I am intolerant towards authors who submit poorly written query letters which do not provide a plot summary or begin with a salutation. Many of the e-mails I receive are composed like text messages and expose the authors as incompetent writers. This brings me to my earlier ideas on public relations.

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A Learning Moment

“Do you want to know what the President did today?” I asked my ten year old son. He wasn’t paying attention as he was playing Nintendo. With my laptop on, I scrolled through news websites with the TV on in the background.

He came over to see what I was talking about. There was a picture on the Drudge Report of President Obama, Vice President Biden, Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates Jr., and Sgt. James Crowley. This was the scene which the President hoped for, a “teaching moment.”

My son asked me what I was talking about and I showed him the photo. I then explained about the arrest of Professor Gates and the misunderstanding about race, and why it became important for President Obama to preside over this meeting. My son sensed that this was a significant story. He nodded his head and listened as I spoke. “He’s doing a good thing, he’s a nice president” he said. He paused over the laptop a moment longer and I patted him on the back.

As a former New York City police officer, I can closely relate to Sgt. Crowley and his handling of the burglary investigation. I’ve never been accused of racial profiling in my career; yet, I can detail incidents where bystanders expressed antipathy towards the white officers present at the scene. Upon reading the report of the incident at Professors Gates’ home, my reaction was to side with Sgt. Crowley.

Phone Envy

My wireless carrier offered me a brand new phone if I added another line. So far, there are three names on our account: my wife, my fourteen year old daughter, and of course, me. Our daughter was the first to chime in on the topic.

She reasoned that my son, who is going into the fifth grade “needs” a phone so he can text his friends (who each have one) and call us when he want to be picked up from a play date. Our carrier would send our son the latest and greatest which technology has to offer; and, I can’t see why he would require such a gadget. I get by with my standard-issue flip phone. Why does he have to own a cell phone with a keyboard and movie camera?

The Business of Men

Mr. Hoyt’s truck overflowed with the stock of his trade: car parts of all types, tires, and, occasionally, kitchen appliances. He’d park his large, creaky vehicle across the street from our home, by Mr. Lowman’s house. It was one of many stops he’d make in the course of a day to sell his goods.

Mr. Lowman was a mechanic who relied upon Mr. Hoyt to supply him with the components he needed to run a part-time auto repair business from his garage. We lived in a blue-collar neighborhood, and it was necessary for people to work more than one job in order to make ends meet. My dad was no exception.

As a boy of maybe five or six, I’d watch Mr. Hoyt amble across the street to our home to meet with my dad, leaving his sons to tend to the business of unloading tires and other items. Dad would greet him at our front door and invite him inside to discuss their particular deals over a cup of coffee in the kitchen. During the holidays, they’d sip whiskey in the dining room like gentlemen, as they would not drink in front of my mother.

My dad was an oil-burner mechanic. Mr. Hoyt, being the type of businessman he was, knew folks who needed work done and found people to do the work for them. He could rely on my father to answer his phone in the middle of the night and then run out to fix an ailing boiler during the cold winter months. I am still not sure what the arrangement between the two of them was, but my father was happy to greet him, and Mr. Hoyt always walked away with a smile and an envelope.

There was nothing peculiar about a grown man providing products and services to the mechanics and utility men of my neighborhood. However, the era of my childhood was the 1960s, and Mr. Hoyt was African American. One needs to remember that these were the years when the late Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was leading peaceful marches across the South and, ultimately, in Washington, D.C., for civil rights. In the meantime, Mr. Hoyt drove his panel truck across town and through neighborhoods where he was not able to buy a home in order to provide for his family.

He was a fixture in our lives until I entered high school and my dad found another line of work that was more lucrative and did not require him to break his back. Mr. Hoyt still visited his other client across the street from us. In his later years, his beard turned white and his body became slightly stooped, as he was a lot older than the men he supplied with both parts and work. By then, his sons did most of the driving and heavy lifting, and my dad still invited him inside for coffee when he came around.

In my early childhood, he was the only Black man I knew personally. Yet, as welcome as he was in our home and Mr. Lowman’s, others were not as tolerant.

A man named Slater, who once lived in the house next to Mr. Lowman, originally hailed from Kentucky, and he was fond of displaying a large Confederate flag on his front porch. Mr. Hoyt often parked his truck in front of Slater’s residence, and he had to endure the malevolent Civil War banner staring him in the face. Mr. Slater would then scurry next door upon seeing him arrive in order to purchase wares from him, too. That type of ignorance is too baffling to comprehend.

Mr. Slater liked me and would often wave as I rode my bike up and down the street with my friends. One particular Fourth of July, when I was about twelve or thirteen years old, he draped his detestable Confederate flag on the wall of his porch again. I reminded him that Kentucky was a border state during the Civil War and officially remained neutral during that conflict, making his allegiance to the Confederacy both odd and gratuitous.

He didn’t wave to me as much anymore after that little history lesson. How he reconciled his bitter, racist beliefs with his genial yet inhibited relationship with Mr. Hoyt was beyond me.

I can’t remember when I stopped seeing Mr. Hoyt come around. To this day, Mr. Lowman still occasionally fixes cars for pay in his garage, but the kind gentleman and his sons are no longer the suppliers he relies on to keep his side business going.

When I was a boy, I understood the awkwardness of whites and Blacks doing business in a world of hate, mistrust, and segregation. There were the cold stares of those who drove past his truck piled high with vehicle parts, with his two teenage sons in the front seat waiting patiently for their father. The young men would look away or talk quietly while ignoring those who could not understand why my dad and our neighbor would invite a Black man into our quaint row of homes.

In the decades since those days when Mr. Hoyt took his commerce wherever he saw fit, our society has changed. It is difficult to appreciate how dramatically different it is now without having witnessed a businessman tread carefully down a suburban street simply to make a living. Yet, just a few days ago, our nation elected a man to become the next president who also happens to be African American.

I do not know where Mr. Hoyt is today or even if he is still alive. However, I believe that his sons appreciate now, more than ever, the fortitude and courage displayed by their father as he drove down boulevards and across racial divides to conduct the business of men.

-Michael J. Kannengieser

My Father, My Teacher

All which I thought I knew about my father was altered in the final days of his life. I believed, correctly so, that he was a strong, powerful man, both physically and in stature; but; I was also exposed to his profound spirituality. 

In my contemptuous, youthful days, I succumbed to the teen aged notion that I was going to live forever and that God did not exist. It was easy and convenient for me to shed the faith I had instilled in me from the time I was born. I called myself an atheist. There's a haughtiness to that belief system which is attached to the inherent and natural anger experienced by those who are pushing eighteen. Perhaps this is sparked by a fear of being nudged out of the nest into the real world, and by the anxiety which accompanies making a life for oneself which creates inner turmoil. My dismissal of God from my life also came at the same time I rebelled against my father.

He raised six of us, three boys and three girls, and he tended to our sick mother. Often he would take on another job to provide for us, making sure we had the bare essentials to get through life and to keep a roof over our heads, and regretfully, I could not appreciate his efforts.

Advice came in the form of bromides and life lessons, often learned from his own mistakes, which I fended off will the skill of a fencing champ. His instruction also came in the form of actions. He led by example, and often I lagged behind not paying much attention. Only now as a middle aged man raising my own family can I understand and appreciate his philosophies of dealing with difficult bosses, unreasonable deadlines, and the vagaries of keeping pace with and eventually surpassing ones peers. I only wish I had been a better student. 

With that said, I've gleaned much from his final hours, ones in which he suffered greatly. He faced his death with dignity. His bravery came from his strong belief in God and his unwavering conviction. His only regret was leaving his family behind, of not being a father and a grandfather anymore. 

It's not easy to become a role model. Folks often claim to be one and are not up to the task. Yet, my dad was a teacher, provider, husband, caretaker, father, grandfather, friend, and a servant of the Lord for his entire life. He enlightened his family until his last breath. Dad taught me that faith is not foolish, that love exits beyond life, and that death is not the end. 

My father has left us, he's given his last bit of counsel, but I remain his son. Hopefully, with the same grace and dignity he possessed, I can guide my own children through their lives while drawing from the deep well of sensibility and insight my father imparted to me.  God willing, I may also rediscover my faith which I retain a faint memory of from when I was a boy. Dad has shown me the way.

-Michael J. Kannengieser

A Keyboard and a Knife: Editing for Blood

Since I was a child I’ve been learning to write. With some formal education and a lot of reading and research, I’ve stumbled across lessons and maxims which have helped me shape my voice and influenced my style. Some of these items which have come my way are adages, wisdom which I can no longer attribute to a particular source. Most useful to me in my endeavors is this line: “A good novel is not what you put into it, but what you take out of it.”

My first novel was written before I heard that quotation. Back in early 1991, I had the gall to think I could write a book. Like my previous short stories, I had characters in mind, a plot, and grand ideas about how to proceed. But, a novel? That is a lot of work, I thought. As I proceeded, I typed away with reckless abandon. The result was a ninety six thousand word manuscript which received dozens of rejections from literary agents and publishers alike. The common complaint was that the “pacing” was slow. Translation: It was too long.

In retrospect, I realize that I did not edit enough. Yes, I pored over the piece for typos, grammar mistakes, and punctuation usage. Yet, I declined to remove all of the excess verbiage and unneeded paragraphs. Like a cluttered room in a tiny house, much could be eliminated. There are passages describing streets, the weather, characters that appear in brief scenes and flowery prose which do nothing to advance the story. Before sitting down to write this article, I took the bulky manuscript out of its box and felt the weight of it in my hands. Examining the enormous size of this work, I surmised that I’d need an axe to chop away the excess.

It’s too late to fix that work of fiction now. I am on to bigger and better things. A lesson I took away from that experience is that I now do much of the editing as I move along. I’ll type out a page or two on my computer and hurry back to examine the length of the section which I am creating. After a break, I read each paragraph, slowly, and then hack away with the delete key. Perhaps I act hastily at times, but I write with my gut. This has become my process of authoring and maybe one day I’ll be rewarded with the so-called success of brick and mortar publishing. Until then, I am a hacker, a steamroller of an author with a sharp scalpel in my back pocket.

Yesterday I began my fourth novel. It is a story which combines many elements of my personal life; and, I am expanding those themes into a tale of a man who reaches the pinnacle of his life while at his lowest point. Having advanced a mere two pages into this outline, blood has already begun to spill. Nouns, verbs, and whole sentences are falling to their early deaths long before anyone other than the eager author, me, has had the chance to read them and make them live. It is nasty work; heartless, cruel, and very necessary. A good novel is not just what you manage to type. It is the result of some cold blooded editing.

-Michael J. Kannengieser

Threads of Yesterday

My parents took me to the doctor for an emergency examination while I was in kindergarten. They had a sense of urgency that, at five years old, I had never seen before. Our family physician wrote a prescription and sent us home. I remember thinking nothing of it until I was spoon-fed this foul mixture, and I gagged before swallowing it. My folks also woke me in the middle of the night to give me the same elixir once more.

Youth and the fog of memory cloud one’s perspective and make the image in the rearview mirror of the mind fuzzy. I needed the medicine, yet I wasn’t sick. Back in 1968, things were a lot different from what they are today. I didn’t even have a pediatrician. But the fact remains that something had given my parents and the doctor a scare.

A young girl in my class had died of viral meningitis.

She passed away at five years old, and it still troubles me. I do not remember her name or even her face. Perhaps as I write this, there is a mother and father who pause each day to recall her laugh, gaze at her photo, and shed a tear forty years later. By now, they are elderly. Perhaps they are grandparents. Yet how could they forget her?

My life and that of the little girl crossed at one point. Though the thread connecting us was thin, there was indeed a portion of the fabric of space-time in which we shared a common patch of Earth and moved along a collective path toward maturation. Sadly, she did not make it any further.

To a greater degree, her parents traveled along that same path and stood at the edge of the plane of existence I had shared with their daughter. Is the tiny ripple of one youthful life great enough to cause a wave of emotion powerful enough to continue to intrigue a grown man?

Four decades have passed, and I still think about my late classmate. She has the effect of keeping me focused, reminding me that my life is supposed to have significance. I will explain.

My cynicism has caused me to question my life’s purpose. I’ve rejected the idea that destiny and fate have any sort of influence over me. Yet, looking back, I see how past events have led me to where I am today, and it sometimes feels like fate.

The players who’ve accompanied me on my journey thus far—including family, friends, teachers, coworkers, and some victims I’ve encountered during my years in law enforcement—have all contributed bits and snippets of truth and awareness that occur to me only when I cast off the cloak of skepticism and become open to the charms of serendipity.

I want to remember this young girl from elementary school. I can still see where she sat in class and the back of her head. With her brown hair gathered into pigtails, she sat upright during those first days of school and listened to Mrs. Sisti teach us the ABCs. Is it fair that I made it this far in life and she did not? What does it mean when a child dies? How do I justify the additional fifty-six years of life I have been fortunate enough to receive simply because I did not get sick?

My conscience cannot easily reconcile transience, the algebra of survival, and cosmic disproportion. For this reason, I am compelled to assess my endurance and make good on an unearthed vow evoked by introspection and an unadulterated scrutiny of what I deem to be providence. Why do I live? How am I so fortunate? And what is the toll for continuing along this thoroughfare—this life?

For the sake of so many who came before me, including this girl of whom I write, I will endeavor to be a good person. My goal shall be to contribute something to the rest of us. Each day, I give a bit more, I think, as I follow a new thread I’ve discovered with my eyes wide open and my mind cleared of wretched disbelief.

My children have now surpassed the young girl in age, and hopefully, God forbid, I will never mourn as her parents have. This girl, this fleeting life, still teaches, though her responsibility was never to die but to grow.

There is a photograph buried in an archive of snapshots and Polaroids at my dad’s house. Captured on paper somewhere in these collections is an image of me in kindergarten. I remember when the class portrait was taken. Her mom and dad no longer brought her to school by then, and she never hung her finger paintings in the hallway with the rest of us for open-school night.

I intend to dig that picture out of the drawer where I store memorabilia. The will is there, but not the effort. Perhaps I will find it one day when I sit back and consider my life and how I got here. Sometimes, whenever I recall everyone I have known over the years, a little girl nudges me and reminds me that she once lived and that she mattered in this world.

Her parents should know that a new filament has been cast across the dimensions between life and death, and their child continues to weave herself into the cloth of someone else’s being. I shall secure this lifeline offered to me by my classmate and keep myself grounded in the belief that I will justify my existence and fulfill my obligations.

Decades ago, a mom and dad lost their daughter. This man, once a boy in her kindergarten class, will never forget her.

Kindergarten physician viral meningitis parents space-time classmate life journey serendipity

Hold Your Nose: Here's An Old Short Story

Dear Readers,
Sometimes I am proud of my writing. Other times I cringe when I post something, unsure of how it will be received. This time out, however, I have absolutely no doubt whatsoever that all of you will be appalled at what I offer here. This is a short story I wrote circa 1985, back in my very early twenties. This is the point in most writers’ lives when they are so confident that they believe that anything they produce in the form of the written word is simply wonderful and cannot be criticized. I remember working on this piece and thinking I was clever.

Two days ago, I found this story in an old notebook, read it again, and had the same reaction one has when they find a dead rat in their garbage can. With all of that said, I feel I have enough equity built up with my audience that even if I toss a stink bomb at them every once in a while some of them might actually return after the smoke clears and I hang out a few air fresheners in the form of decent posts. So now, without any further ado, here’s the dead rat I created back when I was a mere lad of just past legal drinking age.

-Mr. Grudge


The Concrete That Binds
Or: Tip-Toe through the Rip-Tide
(Copyright 1985 M.J. Kannengieser)


Alger’s murder was, of course, inevitable, and yet sickening to the many who knew him. There are some who did celebrate; but, most accepted the idea that it wasn’t his fault. Oh, Alger presented himself as a pillar of the community having finished a mail order course to become a fully certified Notary Public (though the authority vested in him made him drunk with power).

Never the less, nobody questioned why a sixteen year old high-schooler would have met with such a gruesome end.

Some would have guessed that he was shot. Former parents of his (Alger was passed from foster family to foster family, until he was ultimately taken into the care of a family of ferrets), were hell bent on seeking vengeance on him and would storm into Alger’s room at night and riddle the place with gun fire.

All of this started when Alger was small, perhaps two years old, and as a result he never learned to walk as he was constantly pressing his body against the floor and scurrying about to dodge the bullets (hence, how he met the ferrets).

Alger’s many parents were not overreacting, though they completely misunderstood poor Alger. You see, he was never given proper religious instruction; and, he merely saw murder and extortion as a means of getting close to those he loved, and not as mortal sin. Quite frankly, he thought they should simply drop the matter and get over it already.

Fortunately, Alger was never charged with any homicide, thanks to his high school principal (a closet pedophile), who graciously took the rap for him in exchange for Alger’s Polaroid’s (Oh, how Alger loved to spy!).

They way Alger died was officially a mystery until the medical examiner was able to chisel his way through to his body.

Alger had been scampering along the sidewalk one day (about ankle high) along with the ferrets when he plunged into a plot of wet cement. This particular concrete was the quick drying variety and he was became stuck right away. Certainly, the ferrets were unable to drag him out, so the plopped a straw into his mouth (the only visible part of his body) and continued to feed him Cool Whip and pistachio nuts (Alger’s favorite).

Eventually, Alger’s tremendous weight gain required a larger cement block. A local, shady contractor obliged the ferret’s appeal for help; but the ferrets, being nasty little rodents, had no money. When the contractor, eyeing Mrs. Ferret, suggested that there were “other ways” they could “pay” him, they flew into a rage, attacked the contractor, and gnawed his heels out. Fearing for his life, the contractor fled, tippy-toed, back to his office. There he enlisted the aid of his very large sons to exact his revenge on the ferrets by hurling Alger into the ocean.

Later that evening when the tide went out, the ferrets ran to the shore and found Alger in the shallow water blowing S.O.S. bubbles through his straw. As the ferrets struggled futilely to drag Alger out of the surf, Alger gave up, and he offered his last breath by whistling “Shave and a Haircut”.

The ferrets called the police who immediately tossed them into a sack and took them to the dog pound. There, they were placed into a cage with a large, German Shepard and eaten.

Eventually, Alger’s body was discovered again after several bathers at the beach dived into the surf and then floated lifelessly to the surface. This caused a spectacular news event and a police investigation.

A local contractor won the bid to haul out the concrete block which was killing off beach goers. In front of scores of news cameras, he hobbled directly to the spot near underwater slab of cement. A reporter became suspicious.

“But how did you know to look there?” he asked. All the contractor could do was stammer aloud and teeter-totter back and forth on his tip-toes.

At the police station, the contractor admitted to dumping the cement there after cops threatened to prosecute him under the a sub-section of federal RICO statutes, which, in a nutshell states “Anyone in the construction industry has be guilty of something” The contractor turned state’s evidence against his sons and then entered the Federal Witness Protection Program, where he was fitted with artificial heels so he wouldn’t stick out in a crowd when he walked.

The Medical Examiner was allowed to chisel into the cement block after paying $100 to Local 306 Jack Hammer Operators Union, for a temporary union card that gave him permission to do so without fear of having his knee caps broken.

They found Alger at the center of the slab, clutching what at first glimpse, they thought was a suicide note. A specialist (actually a janitor at the morgue, the Medical Examiner forgot his glasses) determined it was in fact a Polaroid of the contractor and Mrs. Ferret in bed together the night before his heels were chewed off. Go figure.

For Alger, an epitaph:

For Ferrets of Love
And contractors of doom
To whom insoles mean embarrassing gloom
For him, Alger never did walk
Entombed in sidewalk, the world did gawk
At the bottom of the sea,
Among raw sewage and waste
With a few final bubbles, the end did haste

The End

Okay Readers, I won't blame you if you run away and don't come back. But, please, please don't go! I'll make it up to you. I promise!

City Boy, Country Man

“So, how was your trip?”

I’ve been hearing that a lot since I returned from my business trip to Nashville, Tennessee. I’d like to think that my co-workers missed my company and were glad to see me back; but, judging from the amount of work on my desk, and from the deluge of telephone calls for administrative support I’ve answered, it appears that I was missed for other reasons. My trip went well, but it was no vacation, and it is great to be home.

Of course, no business trip would be complete without some sight seeing. The hotel and convention center where we stayed is less than one half mile from The Grand Ole Opry. The original site for the Opry was Ryman Auditorium, also located in Nashville. Sometime in the 1970’s the Opry moved to its current location and the show is as popular as ever. My point here is not to talk about the history of the radio program, or the many legendary performers who graced the stages of both the present day Opry House or the Ryman Auditorium. I’d like to make it clear that for one night, for a few blessed hours, I felt truly American.

Country music is alien to many New Yorker’s ears; and, attempts to bring country music to the Big Apple and to Long Island have either failed or been poorly received. There were "fad" cowboy bars in the 1980’s with folks riding mechanical bulls and wearing cowboy hats; but, those venues have fallen by the wayside. My place of birth, my home town, was never a bastion for die-hard country music fans.

Allow me to clarify by saying that you’ll find few people in my neck of the woods to besmirch country music. And, you’d be surprised to discover that Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, and Waylon Jennings are respected names in many northern households. Yet, most country music stars are not part of the culture, and are not easily recognized by typical Long Islanders.

The Grand Ole Opry show I attended included a performance by a member of the Country Music Hall of Fame. I’m ashamed to admit that I never heard of Little Jimmy Dickens, and I vaguely remember the TV show “Hee Haw” from the 1970’s which he appeared on several times. Another singer, Jean Shepard, sang and told jokes and was well received; yet I couldn’t pick her out of a line-up. Jean Shepard has been singing since the 1950’s and is one of country music’s legendary stars.

How is it that I’ve missed so much in my own country’s culture? As a kid growing up on the south shore of Long Island, much of what I listened to was British music. My generation was weaned on Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Who, The Rolling Stones, Elton John, Emerson, Lake & Palmer, Yes, and the list goes on. These bands are so ingrained in the culture of white, suburban kids from my youth and geographical area, that the fact that they are English musicians has long since been erased from the collective zeitgeist of my peers. These rock bands provided music to get drunk by, pick up girls, race cars, and skip school. Jimmy Page inspired generations of kids to become guitar heroes, just like him. Albums produced by our English "cousins" across the pond marked periods of my life when I first discovered girls, got my driver’s license, graduated high school, and fell in love.

The rest of my fellow citizens had different experiences while absorbing native music and sharing an indigenous musical genre. The songs they listened to reflected growing up on this continent, telling a native story, and they nurtured home grown legends. My visit to the Opry proved that to me; and, I felt as though I’d found the key to a vault filled with treasure, and that the key was in my hip pocket all along.

I have no regrets about my love of British rock; and, I wouldn’t trade my childhood for anything. However, I have the time now to listen with an open mind and a new appreciation for my fellow Americans as they sing about life, love, happiness, tragedy, and about America herself. To the Grand Ole Opry, thanks for bringing me home.





Big Apple British rock business trip country music cowboy hats Grand Ole Opry Johnny Cash Long Island Nashville New Yorker Tennessee Waylon Jennings Willie Nelson